


Crossing Rivers

by 20thcenturyvole



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 22:34:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/20thcenturyvole/pseuds/20thcenturyvole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's about respect. Or, seventeen-year-old Mako Mori listens to falling snow, makes a cup of tea, and asks a big question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crossing Rivers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angleico315678](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angleico315678/gifts).



Mako wakes to falling snow.

This is not remarkable in Anchorage, where the days without snow are rare. Nevertheless, when she opens her eyes she hears the faint hush and moan of the wind-hurled flakes singing against the metal walls of the Shatterdome, and she stays in bed for a moment, eyes open, listening intently. Through a single, snow-caked porthole window comes daylight, faint and blue-tinged, turning the asperity of the riveted ceiling into a temporary mural of shadows, some soft, some harsh, layering complexly. She exhales.

She remembers what day it is, and bites her lip, heart beating faster even as the faint, nagging worry she lives with returns from wherever it was banished to by sleep. She has waited years for this. It is her choice, and she will not be deterred... but she fears being discouraged.

She takes a deep breath and throws off the covers. The air is cold, but she dresses quickly, and does not think of the Marshall's 'somedays' as she slips the Jaeger Academy application papers into her bag and leaves her quarters.

~

Mako likes routines; with repetition comes perfection, and she likes anything that allows her to get things _right_. Life in the Shatterdome makes routine very easy. She has heard others complain about it – she has heard Rangers in particular claim boredom, and say that an outfit that is not strictly military ought not to keep such military strictness – and the attitude frustrates her, a little. The only thing that truly disrupts the base’s schedule is a Kaiju attack, and on those days it is the drilling and discipline of the other days that stops the base from falling into disarray. She understands yearning to fight, craving the privilege of beating back the enemy, avenging their fallen and defending those who still survive in the cities at the edge of the sea. What she does not understand is _willing_ those days to come.

That is why she likes routine. A routine day is a day without monsters. A routine day is a day in which she is free to make herself stronger, more knowledgeable – more useful. A better candidate than most who walk into the Kwoon Combat Room.

If all goes well, in a year’s time, a better Ranger.

It is 0712 – she has spent enough time contemplating snow. She knocks on the Marshall’s door as she passes by, but she hears no movement within, and there is no reply. She’s irritated with herself for lingering in bed, and hurries to the commissary. If she can catch up to him, he will eat breakfast with her. He hasn't been eating very much, lately.

Her route takes her past the shrine, but she has no time to detour this morning.

She's in luck when she gets to the commissary: he's by the hot water canisters and coffee machines, talking to Tendo Choi, who himself is likely on his way to bed after a long night of work. They drift away from the table, deeply involved in conversation: Choi is showing the Marshall something on a clipboard, gesturing expansively - not impassioned, but emphatic, and their conversation does not look like it will end with the Marshall getting breakfast, or even his morning cup of tea.

Mako frowns, and moves unnoticed to the table and the Marshall's abandoned cup. One ration teabag, then the boiling water, allowed to steep for at least a minute. One cube of sugar. She stirs the cup and waits impatiently, keeping an eye on the irregular progress their conversation takes across the mess hall floor. The tea looks dark enough, so she adds a packet of dehydrated milk powder - fresh, of course, is too dear a luxury - and stirs until it dissolves. The bag must stay in, so that the tea may continue to steep indefinitely. This, she has learned from long observation, is how the Marshall prefers his tea.

She herself does not drink black tea. On its own, it is too astringent for her tastes, and even dehydrated milk gives her a stomach ache. But he drinks it several times a day and frequently through the night, so it is important to get it right.

(She and the Marshall were raised with ways that are strange to the other. She has always pictured these small incomprehensions as innumerable rivers dividing them. A cup of tea, correctly made by strange standards, is one of many bridges.)

She catches up to the Marshall and Tendo Choi without much difficulty, and when Choi rubs his eyes with one hand he blinks and sees her, offering a tired smile and a "Hey, Mako!" Marshall Pentecost turns around, and she is gratified to see the wrinkle between his eyes smooth out.

"Good morning, Mr. Choi," she says politely, and then offers the tea to the Marshall with a dip of her head. "Marshall."

"Good morning, Miss Mori," the Marshall says, accepting the cup with both hands and a small smile. "Thank you." He turns back to Choi and takes the clipboard from him, saying, "I'll sort it - get some sleep," and Choi laughs and goes, stifling a yawn as he does. To Mako, he says, "Let's get something to eat," and Mako smiles widely and falls into step with him.

Over breakfast, he asks her in Japanese how she slept. She replies in kind and asks him if anything important happened overnight, and he attempts to explain Tendo's energy-saving breakthrough without reverting to English. He mostly succeeds, and this achievement is due to many such meals spent in practice like this. In this American base, she is immersed in English, so it is relatively easy to learn. His studies, she knows, have required a little more research. As of now, his Japanese is about as good as her English.

(Bridges, she knows, are more easily built from both sides.)

~

She goes to her lessons, passing through the shrine with its undimming lights as a detour, touching the frame of the doorways on her way in and her way out for comfort. The Shatterdome has a few children like her - family of Shatterdome personnel who have no relatives to send them away to, and who cannot be spared. They are taught in roughly alike age groups on-site by a small pool of teachers culled from military bases. She does not make much effort to be friends with the others, even the ones nearer to her age, and nobody makes much effort back. She knows they find her standoffish, and she does not mean to be unapproachable, but their rapid speech is difficult to understand sometimes, and she hates the frustration that makes her feel. Besides, she's never been very outgoing. She speaks regularly with her teachers, she is well-known to the LOCCENT crew, and, of course, she speaks with the Marshall every day. That contents her.

She works hard at all her classes, but excels most at mathematics and the sciences - formulas do not require nearly as much translation, nor as much assimilation, as the stories she has to learn in history or literature. The Marshall is always a great help with the latter, but the history, which naturally emphasises the United States, is almost as unknown to him as it is to her. What little history his country shares with theirs was taught to him very differently, he says. It is a slight comfort to know that the rivers do not just exist between the two of them.

At the end of the day, they are dismantling and reassembling engine blocks and learning about fuel consumption. Mako carefully studies the way the engine's parts interlock and work together, and has hers cleaned and reassembled before anyone else in the class. She takes detailed notes and copies the problems from the board carefully. Her work earns her a small smile and a nod from their teacher, and Mako is satisfied with herself today. When she nudges her bag with her foot, the application form inside crinkles. It would be pointless to even apply if she is not good enough for it, and she knows she is. She knows.

She'll ask after dinner.

~

In the meantime, she goes to the shrine.

It was not designed as one by the architects of the Shatterdome. It became that way by an unspoken agreement, shared by the whole base: this large room, between corridors but out of any direct route, which has two doors, and metal benches lining the wall, will be the place, and there will be a light there that is never put out.

It began with the photographs, she thinks. There are hundreds of them now, clustered densely, stuck to the metal walls with tape. Some of them look like they've been there almost as long as the base has existed, and some of them look very new. They are of family, friends, coworkers, Rangers. Sometimes, where people have not had pictures to put up, there are handwritten notes instead. She read one once, but the small details described within made her feel embarrassed, as if she was reading a private thing not meant for her eyes. Despite the public nature of this room, she does not think any of the notes are meant to be read by the living.

The shrine is to all those they've known who died in the war.

There is a picture of Mako's parents in here. They had no proper burial, just a place in the communal pyre. Mass burials and memorials are common practice around the world when a Kaiju makes landfall, since the cities are too toxic to linger in, the bodies too numerous to sort before they rot. Most of the people in the pictures on these walls are in graves like that. It is one of many things the people of the Shatterdome share.

People leave things at the base of the walls. There are dried flowers, carefully pressed to preserve them, delicate with age. There are small stones. There are coins. There are lit candles. There are wrapped candies, and notes folded up small, and books, and bottles of alcohol. Many of the offerings are hard to come by, but nobody steals from the shrine. Nobody would desecrate it.

There's a hurricane lamp that is kept alight, always. It's a wick fed with oil, a real flame - someone decided that was important, and it was agreed. It doesn't give out much light, but the flame gives the shrine soft, flickering edges. There are strings of small lights in two corners as well - Christmas tree lights, she thinks, white and glowing. They look pretty.

She sits and watches the lights reflect off the gloss of photopaper, and the wind and snow hiss faintly outside, and she loses track of time.

"Mako?"

She opens her eyes with a start.

The Marshall's hand rests gently on her shoulder, his face concerned. When she rubs her eyes sheepishly, he smiles a little and sits down beside her, stretching out his legs with a sigh.

"What time is it?" she asks.

"Around 1700," he says. "You haven't missed dinner, don't worry. I came looking for you - thought you might be here."

She nods. She comes here every day.

They share a comfortable silence for a few minutes, staring at the wall of photographs. Eventually, Mako asks, "Are there shrines at every Shatterdome?"

The Marshall inclines his head. "Well, I haven't been to every Shatterdome. But there's a room like this in Lima, and Hong Kong." He hesitates, and then says, "There's a picture of my sister on the wall at Lima. Only one I had."

"What was she like?" Mako asks wistfully. She thinks she would have liked a big sister.

"Like me," the Marshall says solemnly, "But _much_ prettier," and it makes Mako erupt into giggles before she can stifle them. The Marshall looks pleased to have made her laugh, but he's sincere when he says, "She always wanted to slay dragons." In his language, the words have a specific kind of weight.

He inclines his head towards the door, and she takes the signal to leave - but then, as he stands, she stops, and reaches for her bag. She meant to ask after dinner, but the soft, flickering lights make her reconsider. "Marshall," she says quietly, and he halts and turns to face her. "I have a request."

He hands fumble a little as she reaches into the bag. She has no real reason to be nervous, she knows, but this is still important to her. The Marshall takes the papers she hands him, and his face stills as he realises what he is reading.

Mako is seventeen years old. She will be of age in April next year, but by that time, the next class of the Jaeger Academy will have begun. If she wants to be in that year, she needs written permission from her guardian.

In a careful voice, the Marshall says, "In a year, you won't need my permission."

"I know," she says, looking him in the eye. "I don't want to wait."

She has asked him many times about becoming a Ranger, and he has always replied, vaguely, with _someday_. She knows why. She wants to slay dragons, too.

It would be an honour to be a photograph on these walls. But that is not what she's seeking.

She wills him to understand that.

He stares at her for a long moment, stern at first, and then searching. His mouth thins, and he lets out a slow, measured breath. At last, he nods, and her shoulders slump with relief. She bows to him, low and grateful.

When she straightens, he tilts her chin up, eyes searching her face. He tries to disguise the worry on his face, but she can read it plainly. "Mako," he says, "You know you'll be an asset no matter what work you do, don't you?"

She resists the urge to sigh like the teenager she is. "Yes, Marshall," she replies. She works far too hard on honing her skills to doubt them, but she knows what he's really asking.

She has not changed his mind or dissolved his fears. She does not know how such a thing could be done, and suspects it would be impossible without changing herself fundamentally, which she would never do and he would never want. Still, this is the first step, and his hand on her shoulder as they walk out the door to the mess hall is like solid footing over deep water.

  
END


End file.
